


First and Last

by harble



Series: Intervals [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn With Plot, Rutting, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-12-30 03:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18307673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harble/pseuds/harble
Summary: 1893 - John and Arthur celebrate a successful job in a nowhere saloon.1896 - John and Arthur talk about John's family out alone on the trail.Or - the first and last time John and Arthur get together. Goes with the rest of the Intervals series, but context is not 100% needed. And, in case it isn't obvious, I hate going in any sort of chronological order. Chapter 1 is set before "Seconds." Chapter 2 will be set after.





	1. First

John had just reached tipsy when he felt a hand brush across his waist. He was leaning over the bar, yelling for more shots of whiskey, when suddenly, there it was, careful pressure across back, ending with a squeeze. People milled about behind him, and just as John was going to turn around and start a fight with whatever jackass had touched him, the barkeep finally caught his eye and raised his eyebrow. He settled for ordering the drinks instead. The drunk bastard probably couldn’t even see straight.

“Six whiskeys.”

The bartender just looked at him, apparently unimpressed.

“You know what? Make it seven.”

The man set out seven glasses without comment, and poured them in succession. Arthur appeared next to him.

“Big hero’s buyin’ the drinks, is he?”

“You know me. Very generous.”

Arthur cracked a smile and grabbed four of the whiskeys. John grabbed the rest after paying, and they raised them above their heads to weave through the crowd.

“Jesus, you ever seen Clovis this busy?” John almost yelled through the noise of the crowd.

“I think there’s a big mine’s just opened. Brought in a lot of men.” Arthur shrugged, hands still in the air. “It works in our favor.”

Yes, it certainly did. Dutch had been hesitant to go out celebrating the night after a successful train robbery not thirty miles from there, but the crowds certainly lessened the chance they’d be recognized or cause suspicion. Hell, half the men in the bar looked even less trustworthy than them.

They arrived at the table to appreciative yells from Davey and Bill. John and Arthur sat in the two available chairs and passed out the drinks. John kept two for himself.

Dutch raised his glass and looked them all in the eye, one by one. “Here’s to,” his voice rumbled, and he took a dramatic pause, “our dear John, and to his first successful job!”

Mac gave a loud “Here, here!” and they all drank.

The job had been quite a success. It was John’s first time planning based on a tip rather than just passing the tip off, first time telling the other men what to do, first time leading the attack rather than taking up the rear. And it had all gone over without a hitch. One dead lawman and two dead guards for $2700 - one of the best, cleanest takes they’d had in months. Maybe a year.

Of course, Arthur had helped him. He would stop by his tent occasionally in the week leading up to the heist, poke his head in, and just look at John until he broke. Broke, and asked him whatever stupid question he couldn’t quite figure out. But Dutch didn’t know that, and Arthur wasn’t going to tell. He was good like that to John sometimes.

John looked over at him, sitting two seats away, and Arthur winked. John could see from the color of his cheeks and the look in his eye that Arthur had passed tipsy a while ago. Between them, Bill stood up, mumbling about taking a leak.

Arthur reached over without hesitation and snatched the second drink from in front of John, pouring it down his throat before he could even protest. John was about to smack him, or make him buy another, when he felt a warm, large hand on his thigh under the table. Arthur winked again, and the hand squeezed.

John felt a shiver go all the way through him, from knee to groin, then up his spine. The din was so loud he couldn’t quite process what was happening, and the hand was gone before he had time to think too hard about it. He glanced over to Mac and Davey, but they were in their own world, fighting about the best way to tie a bandana. Dutch was whispering to a waitress behind him. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

Maybe he’d imagined it?

Arthur was watching the others now, laughing at their stupidity. John sat back in his chair, confused. What else was new? He was usually confused.

Bill returned with more whiskey and a few beers. John caught a beer as Arthur grabbed at it as well, and tugged it out of his hands with a cheeky smile. Pay back.

“John, my boy.” Dutch’s hand was on his shoulder. “I am so proud of you.”

It was hard not to smile when Dutch talked to him like that, hard not to preen and gloat and enjoy. He’d been the camp problem for so long as a teen that he didn’t know if he’d ever get enough of being useful, or of Dutch looking at him like a son. He caught Arthur’s eye, and spied a jealous look before Arthur could beat it down.

John tipped his beer back. They’d never been quite on equal footing, him and Morgan. Ten years was a lot to make up for, and Dutch’s first foray into adoption had been such a resounding success that it was hard to be the follow up, the so-so second act. Arthur was the perfect heavy, the perfect lieutenant - submissive, loyal, smart, and cruel - and John pointedly lacked most of those qualities. He was still jostling for a position in the gang despite having been there longer than most of the other men. It was all natural for Arthur, it seemed. But John… On his twentieth birthday two months before, Dutch had slapped him when he came home empty handed and drunk, while the gang looked on. It wasn’t a lesson he planned on forgetting.

Still, he knew Dutch often went easy on him, doted on him like a mother might dote on the baby of the family. And he knew Arthur noticed as well.

Arthur stood up abruptly from the table, scratched the underside of his chin with his thumb, and said, “’S too many people in here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the table and headed for the side door of the saloon.

John watched him go until the crowd hid him from sight - through the growing haze of alcohol, he had a hard time looking away from that particular angle of Arthur Morgan. He leaned an elbow on the table, suddenly feeling very sour.

Half a year ago, he’d woken up after a particularly raucous party at camp to find Arthur sleeping on his chest. John only had bleary memories of that night - mostly of scream-singing songs while Javier played the guitar - but he did remember laughing with Arthur until tears streamed down their faces and his stomach ached. And he remembered collapsing with him by the campfire after everyone had gone to sleep, their bodies pressed a little closer than he was used to. He was pretty sure they had just fallen asleep there, slightly tangled together. Pretty damn sure. Still, he hadn’t thought about Arthur in quite the same way since. Now John did stupid things like watch him leave rooms, or get flustered when Arthur poked his head into his tent, looking to help.

His eyes trailed towards the side door, and he allowed his mind to connect a few more dots. What if Arthur had touched his waist that way at the bar? He had already known, really, but hadn’t let himself think it. And something, _something_ was happening. He could feel it in his gut.

“You’re quiet, Johnny.” It was Davey, who smiled over at him. Davey was always smiling.

“Yeah,” John rasped, and stood up stiffly. “I just need a minute, friends.”

No one seemed to mind. Bill was already yelling about wanting to play poker when they got back to camp. Dutch faced away from him, hand firmly grasping that same girl’s hip, head tilted up to look at her pretty young face.

John’s feet carried him towards the door, and sipped his beer. He pushed the door open, and stepped out of the heat and noise of the room. There he was, Arthur, leaning against brick with his hat pulled down over half his face, smoking, one hand on his gun belt.

The alley between the saloon and the neighboring shop was wonderfully quiet and secluded, with just the right amount of noise bleeding through from the bar. It gave John ideas - ideas he suddenly had a hard time pushing down. Arthur blew smoke and looked up at John approaching. He didn’t smile.

“Let me alone, John.” He flicked his cigarette. “You know how I get around so many people.”

John just walked over and leaned against the wall next to him. He plucked the cigarette out of his hand and took a drag.

“Came out here to say thanks.” He handed the stub back to Arthur. “For the help.”

Arthur waved a dismissive hand at him. “You didn’t need to come out here for that, John-boy.” He took one last puff and ground it out against the wall between them. John set his beer bottle on the ground.

“Come on, Arthur. I didn’t come all the way to Clovis to celebrate with Mac and Bill.” It was almost a whine. Arthur rubbed at his face like he was tired.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“He says one nice thing about me, and you have to leave?”

“That ain’t it, Marston. Just leave me be.”

John looked him in the eye. He was still flushed with alcohol, but he looked back with a stern gaze very different from the friendly winks he had given inside. It said _back off._ John decided quickly that he must have been imagining things again, that two and two didn’t necessarily add up to four, especially where Arthur was concerned. Arthur started to light another cigarette, face hard as stone. John pushed off the wall to leave the other man in peace. He would just have to rub himself off later, at camp. Just the thought of that warm hand on his thigh might be enough.

But then he caught Arthur’s gaze flickering, ever so quickly, down to the neckline of his shirt, which he wore hanging open on his chest, several buttons undone. Those blue eyes met his momentarily, then they dropped to the ground. He knew John had seen, and John knew that he knew.

John spat at the ground, then turned back towards the door. Annoyance flared up in his chest. “Okay, Morgan. See you in there later, then.”

He heard a faint sound come from the man behind him, something between a grunt and a sigh. And then John did what Arthur had strictly warned against before they robbed that train - he changed strategies on a whim. He spun on his heel, took a few long strides towards Arthur, and shoved him hard against the wall, hands pushing on either shoulder. Arthur’s breath was knocked out of him with a rough sound, and he looked murderous. It didn’t matter, though, because John was crushing their mouths together soon enough.

Later, John would not think of that first kiss as nice. More mean than anything, really. Arthur’s right hand almost immediately went for the base of his neck, thumb at the hollow of his throat, gripping but not squeezing, and their lips met sloppily at first, then gave way to mostly teeth and tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the new cigarette fall out of Arthur’s other hand, which came up to grip him by the waist.

John’s mind was blank. He focused on the pressure at his throat, which made it (somehow pleasantly) hard to breath, and on the taste as he opened his mouth and bit down at Arthur’s bottom lip. Arthur gripped harder at his neck; their tongues slid over each other in John’s mouth. John moaned quietly, unable to help himself.

Arthur stiffened a bit, and he gave John a firm shove with both hands, sending him stumbling backwards. Arthur’s hands froze there, out in front of him. 

“What in the goddamned hell?”

John narrowed his eyes. He was going to keep pretending now? After his tongue had been down John’s throat?

“Shut your fucking mouth, Morgan. You’re the one feeling me up in a bar.” Arthur looked past agitated, but he didn’t deny it. John considered for a moment, then took a step forward.

“You stay away from me. Watch yourself.” He was trying to sound intimidating, John realized. Trying to look it, too. His chest was puffed slightly, and he pulled one side of his mouth into a sneer. And perhaps for the first time in his life, it wasn’t going to work. John took another step forward.

“Come on. It don’t have to mean nothin’.” John smiled. He was confused before, in the heat and noise of the saloon, but he was sure now. He raked his eyes up and down the other man’s body, for the first time letting himself freely enjoy that view. Arthur looked tense all over, eyes darting wildly as John took a last, slow step. He slotted one leg between Arthurs’ and pushed him softly back against the wall. 

They were standing very close now. John could feel Arthur’s breaths on his cheek, quick and nervous. He had Arthur pinned.

“Felt braver inside, huh?” John almost laughed as he rasped it out.

Arthur just inhaled heavily. John leaned forward with his hips, and his upper thigh brushed up against Arthur. The bastard was already a little stiff through his jeans.

“Fuck you, Marston.” It was a desperate mumble that had no venom to it, no venom at all. John tilted his head towards him, and placed a soft, open kiss on the corner of his jaw. Arthur exhaled through his nose and shifted under John. He didn’t pull away. John kept going, down his jaw, then up the side of his chin. Still soft, still patient. Getting acclimated, like you might with a too hot bath.

Arthur’s hand, warm and rough, suddenly gripped low at his hip. John took it as permission. He kissed briefly at the corner of his mouth, then met his lips full on. This one - this one was nice. Arthur’s other hand reached up and stroked at his exposed breastbone; John caught his chin in his hand and tilted him for a better angle.

They kissed like that for a while, shallow and scared, like virgins, before Arthur seemed to make up his mind. The hand on John’s chest moved around to the back of his neck, and then, before John could react, Arthur yanked down, hard on his hair. John had tied it up with a strip of fabric before they left camp for the saloon, so that it stayed up and out of his face and neck. The jerking motion broke their kiss, and Arthur held John there, head at an angle.

“I like this,” Arthur grunted and tugged again at the tail to make his point, “been makin’ me want to grab a hold a’ you all night.”

John didn’t speak, he just rocked his hips ever so slightly against Arthur’s thigh. They both hissed at the friction. The hand on John’s hip reached around to grab his ass. Arthur pulled him forward with more force. John’s jaw slackened at the feeling, at the sight of Arthur’s face so focused and flushed and serious.

“Someone might come out here, lookin’ for us.” It was a whisper. It sounded like Arthur was trying to convince himself to stop more than anything.

John let out a short laugh. Arthur didn’t let go of his hair.

“Dutch had his hand up some poor girl’s skirt already. And those three fools are glad we’re gone. They don’t like us none anyway.” John ground into Arthur’s leg again. He kept eye contact as he did it, watching as Arthur’s expression look melted a little. Arthur pulled again lightly at John’s hair and leaned down to drag his nose along his neck.

Women always told John he was too loud - louder than a man should be. He tried to be quieter, but it never quite worked out that way, push come to shove. He gave half a thought to keeping quiet with Arthur, but then the man nipped at his skin at the base of his neck, and he had to moan. He heard a small chuckle. 

Arthur licked a little at his collarbone, and murmured, “You shouldn’t leave your shirts open like this, Johnny. It ain’t the women you’ve gotta worry about.” He kissed down his chest, slowly. “Gives men like me ideas.”

John couldn’t process it all - the newness and relief and sensations. Arthur’s head nuzzled slowly into him, and his hand still dug into his ass. Arthur was slowly but insistently grinding into him now. John whined a little, trying to pull his head up and struggling against Arthur’s grip on his hair.

Arthur let him go, and another hand landed firmly on his ass, which made John gasp. He pulled Arthur’s chin up and kissed him again. They kissed slowly, in time with the motion of their hips. John moved one of his hands slowly down Arthur, from his chest to his stomach, then gripped at his flank. He was somehow soft and hard at the same time - a thick layer of yielding flesh covering firm, coiling brawn underneath. He moaned again, desperately, into Arthur’s mouth.

John wanted everything, all of it, all at once. He wanted somehow to be already finished - them both flushed and gasping and spent - and for it to last forever. He wished they were truly alone, in a room somewhere, where they could rip each other’s clothes off and take their time and yell and curse; but then he pictured them back inside the saloon, all eyes watching as they rutted and gasped. He wanted Arthur tied up and helpless at his feet, but, next moment, he wished Arthur would hold him down, make him squirm and beg, take his pleasure. Images raced by in his head so fast he could hardly process his desires, all the things he wanted to do.

He fumbled quickly at Arthur’s pants. He knew at least one way to relieve the frantic lust clouding his head. Arthur didn’t resist, just pulled his head back from their deep kiss and leaned it against the wall, waiting and watching. John pulled his cock out of his pants and huffed out a nervous sigh.

It was about like he had expected (or perhaps imagined). Big and hard and - well, John had never touched another dick before, but he thought it was quite nice, the look and feel both. His own cock twitched in his pants. He kissed at Arthur’s jaw, then rested his head on his shoulder, looking down to watch himself stroke Arthur off.

Arthur didn’t make much noise at first. John was close enough to hear his breath hitch when a twist of the wrist or squeeze seemed to feel especially good. John hummed in appreciation and started to grind, shallow and slow, against Arthur’s thigh.

“That’s it, go ahead.” It was quiet. A command, or a sigh, or a plea. Or all three at once. It made John groan, and speed up. Arthur’s hands on his ass suddenly pushed and pulled with enormous force, fucking him forward and back along his leg. John thought of the pretty bruises he would have in the morning.

Arthur bit at his ear, and everything picked up speed - John’s strokes, Arthur’s breathing, both men’s hips. John’s free hand, still braced against the wall, trembled. He realized, a little too late, that he was going to come off right there in his pants, watching Arthur’s cock fuck into his fist, leaking and throbbing beautifully.

He ground against Arthur’s thigh a couple more times, hard, and squeezed his eyes shut. Release hit him like a slap to the face, forceful and tingling. “Fuck, Arthur, fuck.”

He didn’t even have time to process the wetness in his pants, or the slight shame at having finished from humping like a damn kid. Arthur shifted one hand up to his waist and gasped. John twisted his hand one last time, up and down, and Arthur came, pulsing. Arthur whimpered (a beautiful sound, John thought blearily) and buried his face in John’s neck.

They hung there, breathing heavily, until Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of cloth to wipe off John’s hand and arm with.

“Want me to…” He trailed off shyly, then started again. “I’m sure you won’t take too long now.”

John backed away and hung his head, a little embarrassed. “I already did.” Arthur’s eyes landed on his crotch, where he was sure there was a wet spot forming.

He didn’t laugh or mock, but he didn’t reassure either. Just stood there, looking. John snatched the half-full beer bottle near Arthur’s feet, and splashed it over the front of his shirt and pants. Arthur just watched him with a bemused expression.

“Well, now no one’ll see the spot.” John shrugged. Seemed like a good solution to him, anyway.

Arthur fastened his pants and found his hat on the ground. John watched him carefully, waiting for a smile, or a tease, or anything to let him know that Arthur was okay. John could feel himself beaming still. Pleasure and happiness was blossoming through him; John felt more than okay, better than he had in months, the best he felt since he had woken up to find Arthur, snoring and drooling on his shirt the morning after that party.

But the Arthur in front of him was blushing, deep and shameful, and his eyes kept dropping to the floor. He regretted it - John read it on his face - that thickheaded, son of a bitch already regretted him. His smile fell.

“John, I'm sorry,” Arthur started, low and quiet. John's mind raced. An apology? Now? “I don’t know how-“

“Shut it, Morgan. I don’t want to hear a word about this from you, not to me, not to anyone.”

Fuck Arthur and his constant, shame-faced guilt. Fuck that.

“Don’t talk about it. Try not to think too much about it.” Arthur’s eyes were trained on his cheek, not quite meeting his intense glare. Arthur nodded stiffly and slipped on his hat. John continued, voice growing more confident, “I’m gonna go back in. You come back in a couple minutes.” He turned to go without so much as a smile.

John knew he could have been calmer. But it stung a little (maybe more than a little), knowing Arthur could so quickly come to regret something so innocent, so harmless as all that. John stopped before reaching to open the door, and glanced back at him. Arthur didn’t look up from the cigarette he was lighting. 

“I’ll be outta camp sometime next week. Dutch wants me to scout a stagecoach near Derby. You should meet me there, one night after I leave. There’s only one hotel in town.”

John watched him to make sure Arthur took his meaning. Arthur dipped his head, and his face disappeared behind the brim of his hat. John nodded, satisfied, reached for the door, and opened it. The roar of the saloon hit him like a wall. He smiled to himself, shouldering through the crowd and lazily freeing his hair from the tie. He would have to put it up more often now - see if he could tempt some poor, guilty soul into grabbing him. 

Maybe if Dutch was done with that girl he’d buy John another drink. He had, after all, really done well leading that job.


	2. Last

"Arthur."

A rough voice pulled him from sleep. He stirred a little.

“Arthur.”

He cracked his eyes open and sighed.

“What, John.”

“How’re you gonna sleep sitting up like that?”

Arthur rubbed a hand over his face.

“You’ve seen me do this before, John. And I was already sleepin’.”

He blinked his eyes slowly and glanced over at John. He was already bundled up in his bedroll, lying on the ground. Arthur scratched his back on the rock behind him.

“Alright, John. I’m awake now. What’s wrong?”

John just shifted a little, looking uncomfortable.

“Come on, John-boy, spit it out.”

Arthur looked across at him, trying and failing to glare. John looked funny that way, with only his head poking out of his bedding and a grumpy look on his face.

“I just…” John trailed off, then tried again. “Can I come over there and talk to you?”

They were about ten feet apart from each other, the campfire separating them. Arthur grunted a little, then rubbed at his eyes again.

“I dunno.”

They were ten feet apart for a reason, a reason neither of them had to put to words. Out on their own like this they couldn’t be trusted to be much closer. When Dutch asked Arthur to go scout their way eastward (“Oh, take John along, would you? I think the baby’s liable to drive him mad.”), he had suppressed a groan.

Arthur had made some mistakes in his life, but sometimes he thought fucking John Marston must be one of the biggest. Only sometimes, though.

“Arthur, come on.”

He let his head rest back on the rock behind him.

“Okay, John,” he patted the ground beside him, “let’s hear what you got to say.”

John wiggled out of his bedroll and loped over to where Arthur was sitting. He sat, crossed-legged, and rested his back against the rock.

“John, go ahead, now.”

But he didn’t speak, he just gazed back at Arthur in a way that made him nervous. He looked horrible - pale, with bags under his eyes, and hair hanging limply around his face. When they set out, Arthur thought a few days on the trail might put him right, but he looked more tired than before, if anything.

“You ain’t been sleepin’.” It wasn’t a question.

John shook his head a little.

“You can head back to camp, if yeh want. It’s a one-man job, really.”

“You want me gone?”

Arthur sighed in place of a response.

“It’s that kid.” There was nothing Arthur could do but wait for him to continue. “It ain’t workin’ well.”

“I think the whole camp has noticed that, Johnny.” Abigail and John yelled at each other almost everyday, which sent poor Jack crying most times. 

John looked a little hurt. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Then why ain’t you sleepin’ out here?”

“I’m just thinking about going back, having to go there and hold it and get those looks from her.”

“Why’re you tellin’ me this?”

“You’re supposed to be my brother, Arthur.” His voice was suddenly desperate.

Arthur almost laughed. “Is that what we’re supposed to be now? Is that what’s suiting you best right at this moment?”

“I’m sorry.” John’s voice quavered, and he dropped his head into his hands. There was a moment of silence. The fire popped, and a log fell, sending spiraling embers into the air.

“Okay, okay, John. I didn’t mean to play it so rough.” He reached a hand over and pet at his shoulder. John flinched at the contact. “I know it ain’t easy tryin’ to be a family in front of all of us.”

“We ain’t a family.”

“Shut up, John.”

"It probably ain’t even mine-"

“Don’t start that shit again, Marston.” Arthur caught his eyes and tried his best to look severe. “That kinda’ talk ain’t helpin’ no one.”

“You just know it’s true.”

“Who cares if it is or isn't? Who cares, John? You gotta son now, whether you want him or not.”

His mouth flapped open, then closed again.

Arthur continued, his voice growing a bit louder, a bit meaner. “If I’d known how shit you’d be, I’d’ve claimed the boy myself.”

“I don’t have to try too hard to be a better father than you were.”

They looked at each other, and for a brief moment, Arthur saw a stranger in front of him. All those years of familiarity disappeared. John’s face pulled an expression he couldn’t read, not even a little bit. Then, just as quick, he was back to being John. Arthur watched his face cycle through shock, then regret, then fear. 

To Arthur, his words just felt like deep, aching guilt, right behind his heart.

“You gotta do better, John. ’S important.”

They sat in silence, watching the fire crackle. Arthur knew that John was trying to form his stubborn mind around an apology. He fumbled at his satchel and pulled out two cigarettes, handing one to John.

“Christ,” Arthur grumbled as he lit up, “I ain’t never felt so guilty as when I look at Abigail with that baby. Never thought I’d be in this particular position.” He laughed a little, and saw John look surprised out of the corner of his eye. He kept watching the fire. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t fuck gang women.”

John shrugged weakly. “I ain’t a woman, Arthur.” He blew smoke. “And you shouldn't feel guilty. I don’t. We’ve hardly done anything since Jack was born.”

“I know you don’t feel guilty, John. That’s part of the problem.”

“You think anyone knows?”

Arthur tutted. “Nah, I figure if they did, we’d know. People ain’t too comfortable with inverts in my limited experience.”

“I ain’t inverted.”

Arthur just raised his eyebrows and inhaled, enjoying the cigarette almost as much as John’s insecurity.  
  
“Okay, John-boy, you’re right.” He heard the fondness in his own voice - couldn’t quite rein it in. He looked over at John and saw those bags under his eyes, almost purple beneath the skin. Arthur motioned roughly with his hand. “Come on over here.”

John looked at him, eyes narrowing.

Arthur had to smile again. He grabbed John’s arm and tugged. “Come on, I ain’t gonna hurt yah.”

John put his hands on the ground and crawled on all fours over to where Arthur was sitting. Arthur opened his legs a little, and John climbed in between them and sat up, leaning his back against Arthur’s chest and letting his legs sprawl out in front of him. He rested his head back on Arthur’s shoulder. They breathed together for a while, enjoying the closeness. Arthur snubbed out his cigarette and threw it.

“You know,” Arthur started, and John shifted back further into his chest, “this seems an awful lot like something an invert would do.” Arthur carded a hand through John’s hair, brushing it out of his face. John didn’t react, just sighed and gently placed his arm on Arthur’s thigh. “Get some sleep. You look like shit.” He stroked at his forehead, then wrapped an arm slowly around his chest, hugging him close.

“Always a charmer, Morgan.” John shifted back again. Arthur could feel his heart hammering. It had been a while since John had been touched; Arthur could tell just from the way he was a bit stiff in his arms, clearly unsure, and the way he seemed to hold his breath whenever Arthur moved. He leaned his head down and brushed his mouth experimentally across John’s exposed neck. Goosebumps, and a small, strangled groan. Arthur’s lips curled into a private smile.

“Don’t tease, Arthur.”

“Who says I’m teasing?”

“Why’re you being nice?” His tone was suspicious enough to make Arthur chuckle.

“Things have been changing fast for yeh. I know you’ll figure all this out, John.” He thought for a moment. “I’m just sorry I have to complicate it all.”

He didn’t let John respond, just dipped his head and found his neck again. John let out a delicious moan and squeezed at his thigh. Arthur loosened his right arm started to stroke him, long and slow, from his breastbone down to his stomach, then back.

It was easy, almost too easy, to turn John into a whimpering mess between his legs. He pulled at his waist to get him to sit up a little more, then turned his chin and kissed him, deep, ignoring the awkward angle. It was their first kiss in quite a while - Arthur could feel his own heart start to pound at the familiar taste of it, at the slow slide of lips and tongue. John’s hands still clutched at his knees on either side, as if he was afraid Arthur might run away, or simply disappear into thin air. Arthur kissed back down his neck, down to his shoulder, and moved his free hand around to John's front, fondling at his chest and reaching into his shirt.

John’s head fell forward, and he honest-to-god keened. Arthur was glad they were so far away from the trail, all alone in the middle of the wide, flat prairie. There was no one else to hear John groan his name when he reached down low and palmed him through his pants.

Arthur knew John wouldn’t last long in this state - exhausted, lonely, and more than a little sad. He found he didn’t mind. He had always liked this position with John, always liked the way John felt helpless between his thighs, and how it allowed him to pour out all his attention without getting much in return. He also liked how it felt to touch John from behind, the angle familiar, almost as easy as touching himself after a long day out on his own.

John squirmed, and Arthur pressed him with his legs to keep him in place as he pulled his dick slowly out of his pants. He buried his face in John’s shoulder, nudging his shirt aside slightly with his nose. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it was a bad idea, but he parted his lips anyway and started to suck slowly on the skin.

Arthur gently stroked his cock, base to tip, listening to John’s breathing and watching over his shoulder. He let out a deep rumble at the sight, knowing John would feel the vibrations all over, and sucked a bit harder on the skin between his teeth. There were few things Arthur liked better than marking John up. 

John was babbling now, curses mixed with his name and small, whispered pleas. Arthur dragged his mouth up his neck to his ear and stroked faster. He skimmed his free hand up and down his chest before reaching across him and pulling him close. He knew just how to finish him off.

“Darlin'.” He kissed at his ear and hugged him tight. "John-boy. My John.”

John whimpered and weakly thrust up into his hand once, twice. He came with a gasp and a moan, pressed himself hard into Arthur’s chest, and released onto the ground and his shirt. Arthur stroked him through it, licking softly at the bruise he left.

John shifted his weight, sliding down a little so his head rested on Arthur’s chest. He tucked himself back into his pants but didn’t bother with the mess on his shirt.

“Do you want…?” John trailed off sleepily. Arthur knew John could feel him; he was stiff and aching against John’s warm side.

“Nah, John, don’t you worry about me.” If Arthur had his way, John would have fucked him into the ground until he couldn’t see straight, made it so he couldn’t ride a horse the next day. But it wasn’t that sort of night. “I’m sorry I - I think I left a bit of a mark on yeh. Might have to be careful with that around…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

John nuzzled into his stomach, face sleepy and unreadable. “It don’t matter.” 

Arthur just pet at his hair, waiting for him to speak again, and watched the fire dance.

But when he looked down a few seconds later, John was asleep, mouth slightly open. He felt a deep warmth spread in his chest. Arthur smiled and settled back slightly onto the rock, taking care not to jostle him too much. He closed his eyes, and hoped his erection would go away sooner rather than later.

When he woke the next morning, John, his horse, and his bedroll were gone. Arthur figured he’d taken him up on his offer to go back to camp. The next day, he found a nice spot for the gang to move to - hidden away along a dry creek bed, not too far from a sleepy prairie town - and then headed back. 

When he arrived at camp, grimy and saddle-sore, he was surprised when Abigail followed him to his tent, baby Jack clutched to her chest.

“Whaddya want, Abigail?” He posed the question without turning around, and knelt down to rummage through the chest next to his bed. He felt right at that moment he would kill a man for a fresh shirt.

“Arthur. Where is he. Where’s John?”

The fear in her voice hit him like a train. His hands slowed. He realized he had known the truth, but not let himself think it.

“If he ain’t come back here yet, Abigail,” he paused, “I don’t know.” He shifted and looked up at her, right in the eyes. “He left me four days back.”

Abigail whipped around so fast, Arthur didn't see her reaction.

 

Arthur was relieved when, on an overcast, miserable sort of day, they finally packed camp and left. Dutch had delayed moving for three more days and sent out riders for signs of him. Arthur refused to go. He knew what happened, as well as Dutch, or Abigail, or Hosea, or anyone else who really knew that boy. If he wanted to come back, he would’ve. Would’ve found a way.

The first night of the move, when the caravan stopped for a rest, he wrote what he told himself would be his last entry about John Marston:

 

_The boy is gone. I am pretty sure he is not coming back. He has left all of us in quite a spot - Abigail with that child, Dutch without his prize pony. And me. Me, with regrets and guilt. I wonder if I should not have touched him that night, or if he had already made up his mind to go. Hosea always says that no one can make another man do anything - that all men make their own choices._

_I guess he has made his._

_I found poor Abby crying today as we packed. She had hid herself behind the tents, proud woman that she is. She just looked at me with those eyes of hers until I left her alone. I would draw her, crouched there with baby Jack in her arms, tears falling to the dirt, but I do not feel it is something to be saved. The image is burned into my mind in any case. I will not soon forget it._

_I hope to never see him again. If he comes back, I am sure I would not recognize him. A man without loyalty is no man at all._


End file.
